“It’s a rental,” I admit, grabbing the door handle.
“So, you have one on your car at home?”
“You’ll have to ride with me again to find that out.”
Claire glances at the open door, a flash of surprise appearing. She wasn’t expecting me to open the door for her, and it makes me very glad I did.
“What a gentleman.”
Her breathing is rapid, like she’s reacting to our close proximity.
“Not often,” I admit.
She smiles before lowering herself to the seat slowly, careful to keep her knees close together. I plant my body directly in front of hers, blocking her from any passersby the same way I protect my goal.
Once she’s settled, I shut the door and round the hood. I slip the valet a tip despite my lingering annoyance before climbing in the driver’s seat.
I feel her eyes on me as we zoom down the street, and there’s a flip in my stomach that’s happened…never.
I’m weirdly nervous. Antsy. I clear my throat and fiddle with the volume knob of the stereo.
“I love this song,” Claire comments.
I glance at the screen. “Dreams” is the name of the song playing.
“I mostly listen to older music,” she continues. “Fleetwood Mac has some of my favorites. I only knew two of the songs they played in the club earlier.”
“Did you have fun?” I ask, curious to know more about her night. About her.
“Yeah,” she answers, not sounding sure. “It was…different.”
“Different from what?”
“I grew up outside Boston, in this small suburb where nothing that exciting ever happened. As you might have noticed, based on how I freaked out about you calling Saylor, I’m sort of a rule follower. I didn’t go to parties in high school, and I don’t go out much in college either. I bartend at a pub in the summers, but I don’t go to places like that often. I don’t party much. I play soccer.”
There’s a defensiveness to her tone, like she’s expecting me to think less of her for it.
“Me too,” I tell her.
When I glance over at a red light, Claire appears dubious. “You know where we met, right?”
“I never went inside the club,” I say. “If I had gone in, we would have met earlier.”
She scoffs, like she doesn’t believe me.
And I want her to believe me, so I press the point. “You think I am lying, Boston?”
“You expect me to believe that you’d walk right up to me in a club and ask for my name?”
“I walked up to you outside a club and asked for your name. What is the difference?”
Claire doesn’t reply right away. But then she says, “You were just being nice since I was obviously out of my element.”
“I’m not nice.” We’re stopped at a red light, so I mimic her driving motion. “I was amused.”
That’s not quite the right word, but I’m not sure I’d be able to come up with it in German either. It was an instinct, to approach Claire, and I’ve learned to rely on mine.
I take a left, although I should’ve gone right, to prolong the drive with her.
